


With Cat-Like Tread: In Which Serendipity Meets Ineffability, And A Good Time Is Had By Most.

by Tammany



Series: The Sussex Downs [22]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Gen, Hark! Adventure!, M/M, Mash-up., Tarantara!, The Game's Afoot!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-11-08 03:13:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20828453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: I knew I'd find a use for smugglers...This is an actual story with an actual plot. I have rated it "mature" because it starts out with moderately explicit if not very shocking sexy-times being sought out and accomplished, but it's not a particularly erotic sexy story. It's an Adventure. With Villains!  And Heroes! And Drunken Parkour! And Gorse Bushes!Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. :)Have fun.





	With Cat-Like Tread: In Which Serendipity Meets Ineffability, And A Good Time Is Had By Most.

The temperature of the ocean that night, according to seatemperature.org, was 17.7° C/63.9° F. Cool. Not quite frosty…but definitely cool. But as the evening had cooled and the wind had picked up over the ocean…well. It was above air temperature. And Mycroft, wrapped in a dense terry robe, leaning on the rail of the master-bedroom’s terrace balcony, felt a hunger for the waves.

It wasn’t wise. He was a strong swimmer, but not so strong he should go swimming alone. Rosie wasn’t the only one who could be dragged under and out to sea. Even so the dark ocean called to him, and the suck and sough of the waves whispered, and his flesh begged for the naked caress of water, as sweet in its own way as the trace of Greg’s hands that afternoon, the soft nuzzle of his nose in the turns and sheltered coves of Mycroft’s body. The thought of cool water invading his most private skin raised goosebumps—and more.

He’d jacked off in those waters, as a teen, sneaking out of the house and down to the water, out of sight of Mummy and Father, to strip naked and wade out and touch himself in the jet dark as the waters rushed over his body. It had helped define “erotic” for him…more so than smutty magazines or primitive computer links to the early internet or fantasies of boys in the PE locker rooms. “Sexy” was being stark naked a mere hundred or so yard from parental oversight, naked on a beach where anyone could pass by on foot or by boat, immersed to his arm pits, hand finding his hard cock in the cold water…

Mycroft shivered. He wanted that. Not because Greg was insufficient, but because his partner was sufficient—left him so happy in body and mind that the echo carried over long past the point where Greg fell asleep. Still the delight and joy of it lingered, like the chime of a tuning fork, on and on long after the tone was struck.

It didn’t take long for him to decide to give way.

He probably should have left a note—but he was a man both inclined by nature and conditioned by training to leave no clues behind. It didn’t even occur to him. He slipped on beach sandals, grabbed a back-up towel to dry off on before crawling back into his nice, cozy terry robe, and slid silently down the stairs, through the house, across the lower terrace, and down the path to the sea, passing Sherlock’s cottage without making a sound—not that he thought he’d be noticed. Sherlock and John were in that state of inebriation one achieves by slow, modest drinking over a very long period of time. They had not rushed themselves. They had not chugged. They had not moved from the gentle seduction of beer and ale to the more challenging assault of hard liquor. No—they’d dallied together though the afternoon into the evening, nursing their long-necks, eating casually constructed bacon butties slathered with brown sauce with crisps alongside, chattering and laughing and reminiscing over adventures past, and concerns present. They were therefore now sloppy, friendly drunks murmuring on in the night, barely aware of their surroundings beyond a muzzy certainty of the crashing surf. Slipping by them was a doddle.

So—past the cottage. Down the final slope. East along the shore, moving toward Dover, miles and miles away. Around the slight outcrop of chalk and flint, to the sheltered cove where the jut of stone offered shelter from the current of the Channel. There, out of sight, Mycroft slipped out of his robe and put his towel down where it could be easily picked up again as he came out of the sea. He lingered for a moment, feeling the chill of the breeze on his warm skin.

Cold. Whoa, too cold! The water would be warmer. He strode down the sand and shingle beach, feeling the hair on his chest and shins flutter—an odd feeling for a man who had spent years with even his scalp hair cemented down with product. An oddly sexual feel, one he associated with Greg’s foot gliding up his calf, and shower water cascading down on both of them. The beach sandals flopped gently, protecting his feet from gravel and cobble and shell fragments and stray flints knapped to a cutting edge by the churn and crash of the waves as stone crashed against stone. Then he was at the surf and wading in.

It was horrible and wonderful, and he gave an all too human whoop and grunt as he plunged forward into the waves, until he was rib deep with the higher waves caressing his nipples. His cock bobbed down below, between his thighs, with the lift and fall of the water. For a brief moment he was freezing—balls scrambling to claw their way into his abdomen out of the chill, cock withering, skin tight, nipples turned to tight little pearls on his chest. He panted and considered an ignominious retreat—then changed his mind as his body recognized the situation, and worked magic on his perceptions. Sudden the water seemed warm, compared to the air from his nipples upward. The silken touch of the surf moving in and out was bliss—cool and warm at once, and profoundly sensual.

He reached down and touched himself, and his cock responded instantly, filling and stiffening, eager to play as he’d not played in decades. Time seemed to still, to warp, until he was in both the past and the present, hand stroking steady in both eras. Pleasure rising, in both eras. Good…so good.

Then he was past thinking at all, and was lost in the joy of the moment. His autocorrect shifted him on occasion, as the sand and shingle sifted away under his feet and he had to step back to avoid being carried deeper into the waves. He kept a faint awareness of his surroundings. He was too hyperaware by nature and by profession to lose track entirely. But for the most part he was a nameless man in the nameless sea experiencing the glory of rising arousal and climax under a starry sky. He let it ride, and ride, until he could ride it no longer, and exploded, feeding jets of high-calorie spunk to the fishes and planktonic organisms, which were all no doubt delighted as he was.

Only then did he return to himself, and realize he was now cold as a brass weather cock in a blizzard and desperate for his lovely terry robe. He turned, and started to shore—only to see them.

Three men, he thought. Dressed in black. He doubted he’d see them if the rising chalk slope and the heather and the sand and shingle were not all a pale backdrop for the ninja-esque creepers sliding stealthily down the beach toward the main estate. Part of him fluttered in terror. But he was trained…

He hated leg work. Hated it with a profound passion as intense as Sherlock’s love of the Great Game. But he was good at it—far better than Sherlock, who had ruined an otherwise promising career with too little self-discipline and too much erratic improvisation. Mycroft stopped, looked, listened—and then planned.

These were not, he concluded, professional spies. They showed none of the hallmarks of a canny intelligence agent. A good spy would not be dressed in ninja-attire on a pale public beach, nor would he slink and slither and skulk quite so obviously. Certainly three would not. It tended to arouse suspicion even in the minds of the clueless and naïve. No. If they were professional spies, or even good average thugs, they’d be dressed in vacation gear and they would be “Lost, sir—sorry. Must have overshot our rental. Can we use the phone to call a taxi? Better than us thrashing about down there without a clue.” And only after entering a victim’s private residence would they attack, outnumbering and overpowering their victims…

These were amateurs, or at least part-timers. Smugglers, perhaps, of the sort so much of England’s coastlines had fostered for generations: not the serious, full-timers, but the part-time opportunists who’d pillage a wrecked ship or carry a bit of informal cargo on the basis of chance and convenience and perceived safety. Not “criminals” in their own minds—just a bit leery of the Inland Revenue, and reluctant to give up profit when it was to be had. These lads were out to manage a bit of profit, either at Mycroft’s or at the angel and demon’s.

Still, not good. Quite a bit not-good. How this was handled could affect quite a lot of things, not least the households’ relationships with locals for decades to come. This had to be handled properly, with neither wishy-washy tolerance nor a rush to judgement.

Mycroft paddled in toward shore like a crocodile, lying low in the water, watching his prey even as he approached the shallows. One he could hold his place with toes and fingers planted in the shifting gravel and grit, he waited.

The ninja warriors failed to even notice his bright white towel and robe, he thought. Which all went to show that training and observation were precious commodities and gave one a heady advantage. When the men had passed the outcrop and continued west, toward the upward path to the estate, Mycroft raced out of his low-lying position in the water, and into his robe, which he tied and girded up between his thighs, to allow greater freedom for combat. He nearly left the towel—then decided that there was some value in being a hoopy frood, and tucked it conveniently into his sash. Then he padded behind, feeling secure in the certainty that the little squad of smugglers were not going to do anything clever and professional like check behind them. Their attention was entirely focused ahead. He moved forward, his own attention similarly focused.

Which is why he failed to notice the dark, brooding presence uncoiling from the warm black boulder of flint down the beach, still hot with the day’s sun. Likewise he missed the glowing gold of slitted eyes, or the rasp of scale on shell and sand.

So it stood thus: There was an angel reading up late in the estate beyond, giggling as he worked his way through the oeuvre of his new associate Janine Hawkins, pen-name Janine Donlevy. He was quite delighted with her, ranking her a worthy cross between Austin, Christie, and Nora Ephron. One house closer to the smugglers Greg Lestrade was just waking to realize Mycroft was missing from his bed. Within moments he would realize Mycroft was missing from the house, and he’d begin to feel the cold, unsettling terror lovers feel when their beloveds are missing without explanation. Down the slope from Greg, Sherlock had just dared John to engage in a bit of improvisational parkour with him: up the wall of the cottage, over the roof, down the stepped decorative motif to the rail of the patio, and around to the path down to the sea, where Sherlock suggested they wet their heads and sober up.

Approaching were three ninja warriors, a white-clad samurai British Government still vibrating from the energy of a rousing climax in chilly waters. And behind him—the mystery in black. Not that you’re likely to be in much doubt what Loathsome Wyrm came squirming behind, gold eyes bright with mischief…

“Oi,” husked a ninja warrior. “You sure no one’s up here?”

“Saw their high and mighties go off this noontime in the hatchback. The broad left in the morning. The short guy who came up later this week—he’s starting work in town tomorrow morning and he’s got a kid. Just rented a place in town. That leaves no one but the skinny berk…and I’m guessing he went back to town for now with the pansies. If not—three against one, assuming he even notices us up in the house above. If we’re quiet he’ll never know.”

Quiet was not, actually, one of their outstanding attributes…as Mycroft the Samurai and the Black Wyrm Of Sussex were both appreciating with rising amusement.

Poor lads, Mycroft thought. Thinking the place was empty, when instead it’s quite well filled up. I’ll have to be gentle with them or I’ll overpower the great gits.

Sherlock was in mid scramble up a thriving bougainvillea to the roof of the cottage. He was swearing as he climbed, because bougainvillea are more than a little thorny.

John was scowling, and testing the prickers. He thought better of Sherlock’s ascent path (Let us refer to it as the South Col route to the summit…), and chose instead to balance a large plastic storage chest between two patio chairs, all underneath the eaves, allowing himself to climb up by an alternate approach. (Which we can refer to as the Northeast Ridge…) John gripped the gutter, bounced on his toes, knocked over the trunk from its insecure perch on the chairs, dangled for a drunken moment, then managed to hook a knee up and over, and crept ignominiously to the tiles above, just as Sherlock, swearing and bleeding with a great gap torn in his black jeans, arrived beside him.

Greg had realized that his lover was well and truly not-there—and worse, had realized that Mycroft’s robe, beach shoes, and spare towel were missing, too. Greg, with no romantic, fraught memories of skinny dipping in the high-hormonal frenzy of pubescence, had no fond thoughts to justify Mycroft’s venture into crashing surf and deadly undertow. It can be safely said that his overall opinion was negative in the extreme. Indeed, he was wishing he’d worked out a “drugs-bust” caliber approach to Mycroft being a Sherlockian arse, and storming across the terrace toward the path downhill.

The dark power, being of the pit, foul beast, and terror of the imps of hell, knowing his own love enjoyed a bit of fun as well as the next angel, prayed that Aziraphale would lift his head for a moment and realize that the night was, how shall we say—charged with ineffable serendipity. He considered bamfing himself up just to alert the angel—but was afraid of losing his place in the queue…and he was British enough after all these years to respect the laws of the queue…

“’Ere—up the path,” the head ninja warrior shouted back to his companions. “Nothin’ going on, see? It’s all clear.”

Of course, it was not all clear. Greg and Sherlock and John were all just well enough acclimated to the dark to have left the lights off… But the ninja warriors were domesticated sorts, and assumed if you were home you’d have a light on. Right? It stood to reason. Unless you were asleep, and it was early. It had to be early or they’d have to explain to their wives why they were out late, and they did not want to explain to their wives anything of the sort…the truth was bad enough. The fantasies their wives would spin from the truth—the affairs with barmaids, the drunken sprees, the wild gambling in the garage they worked at? No. Never. It was not to be endured…

So three three ninjas crept up the path, with considerably less than cat-like tread. (Tarantara-tarantara…)

John and Sherlock crept together up the slope of the cottage roof, and then posed in high Byronic form against the starry sky and the shimmering, silver-backlit clouds. Their balance was none-too-reliable, but their panache was making a brave go of it.

“Oi, Sherlock,” John said, frowning. “Whas’ sat?”

“Whas’ wha?”

“Sat.”

“Sat what?”

“Ninjas.”

“Wrong Island. Wrong Empire. Wrong criminal classes.”

“Right black jammies.”

Sherlock, following John’s point, scowled in harmony with his BFF. “Huh. Not jammies, John. Do try to keep up. Running togs.”

“Jammies, running togs. Ninja gear.”

“Not ninja gear.”

John, feeling a bit dizzy, sat down on the roof beam. “Look like ninjas. Creep like ninjas. Wear black like ninjas. Crawlin’ up your path wi’out sayin’ so much as ‘howdy-do, nice-night-ennit.’ I say it’s ninjas.”

“Could be Halloween ninjas.”

“Ent Halloween.”

“Midsummer Night’s Ninjas?”

“That’s jus’ silly.”

“But—”

“Look, it’s ninjas. No time to be worryin’ what kind. Time to be havin’ adventures,” John said, reprovingly. “You losing your—oh, what’s the French term?”

“Je ne sais quois?”

“I don’t know. Do you know?”

“I said—je ne sais quoi.”

“Maybe. I thought it was joy-do something. But whatever. There’s ninjas, lad. Let’s go pounce on some ninjas.”

“We were doing parkour, though…”

“No reason not to do both,” John said, and proceeded to pounce down the stepped wall onto the rail, run in wobbly glory along the rail to the end of the terrace, and leap, Tigger-like, out toward the leading ninja. Unfortunately John was drunk, the night was dark, the angle was deceptive, and the ninja was not advancing at a reliable rate of speed. John missed, and, again Tigger-like, landed in a gorse bush wound tightly around an aloe vera. Which could have been used to treat the injuries, but only after it had inflicted a goodly number.

John shrieked like a little girl.

The ninja, terrified himself, shrieked like another little girl, setting off the other two, one of whom furthermore peed himself. It must be said they raised a shriekier, more high-pitched ruckus than the bevy of little Warrior Princesses at Rosie’s sleepover in town…

The shrieks set both Sherlock and Greg off—Sherlock in terrified and drunken conviction that John was dying at the hands of brutal if unclassified ninjas unknown. He demonstrated his skills in inebriated parkour, racing along the same path John had followed and leaping out onto the path shouting “Ah-ha!” He tried to swirl his Belstaff, only to remember belatedly that this was not an actual planned mission in the old days, but an off-the-cuff event after a long and placid day of drinking and bantering, and he wasn’t dressed for Belstaff sorts of event. He looked rather more like a scarecrow than a Night Monster. But he put his best into it, spidery arms spread wide and face a mask of fury.

Greg, saner and far more sober, proceeded with speed but caution down the path, to find John in the gorse bush, Sherlock in a frenzy of Kabuki posturing, three shrieking ninjas, and Mycroft just arriving up the path with an oar salvaged from the household row boat, with his robe kitted up like a Japanese samurai painting, and a grimace on his face that did the entire “I am a deadly Ronin Knight” thing justice.

“Well, fuck,” he muttered. Then waded forward, caught the lead ninja by the hood of his sweatshirt, and snarled, “Oi, blud, you’re nicked.”

At which point behind arose a dark and brooding serpent from the shadows beyond, eyes glowing gold, maw pinkish white with gleaming fangs (actually NOT fangs, just the spiny row of teeth common to constrictors, but the ninjas were not being particular at that moment…). It hissed. Mightily.

And, at last, from the heavens above, came the swoosh of wings, a blaze of light along what appeared to be an antique cavalry sabre, and the voice of an angel of the lord, shouting “What a caterwauling do you keep?” Aziraphale raised the flaming sword high, the better to illuminate the scene below, and huffed. “If you were going to LARP, why ever didn’t you tell me? I enjoy a bit of role play as much as the next angel.”

“Given the nexxxxxxt angel isssss Gabriel, that’sssssss hardly an accomplisssssshhhhhment,” the serpent said, in a far too human voice.

The result deserved a name. Like Imam Bayildi means “The Imam fainted”? In this case the semi-professional ninja smugglers fainted. Out cold for the count. There are limits, and they had exceeded theirs.

It took a bit to sort it all out. First some argument on the path down to the beach, and then some angelic an demonic transportation of smugglers, who found themselves in the morning sleeping on benches in the town square stuck all over with post-it notes saying “We’d have seen you home if we’d known your address. Consider yourselves let off light. Don’t try it again.”

They didn’t. They most assuredly didn’t.

The residents and their neighbors soon found the stash of absolutely excellent brandy and hashish tucked securely in the rafters of the big house. Taken in total the booty only weighed about a hundred and fifty pounds—easy enough for the smugglers to carry out in one trip, if they’d been luckier and more observant. As it was…

“Do we turn it in, then?” Sherlock asked. “It’s not narcotics, Mike. Only the brandy is addictive—your drug, not mine…” He raised the tarry packets lovingly to his nose. “Prime grade,” he sighed.

Mycroft, equally admiring of the brandy, shrugged. “In theory I truly ought to. But…oh, dear. The paperwork. Such a fuss…”

“Yeah. And they always doubt you just a bit,” Greg said, and picked up a bottle. “The Revenuers are suspicious sorts, when you come down to it.”

“Well—yes,” Aziraphale said, rolling his eyes and already sure where this was going. His demon, still serpentine, had wound around him. The great head rested across his lap…the golden eyes laughed…

“It’ssss not applessssss,” he hissed. “Applesssss, now. Applessssss are trouble. Thissssss? Just a little ssssssssin.”

Aziraphale smiled, and thought how lovely the brandy would be in a Steak Diane—and how much nicer the Steak Diane would taste if he had just a bit of the hashish before dinner…. “Not even a mortal sin,” he pointed out. “Merely venial. And, well. One never does like paperwork…”

Mycroft at last smiled, and gave in. “Oh, very well. Half to each household.”

“But it was in yours,” Aziraphale said—even as he began counting out packets of hashish.

“Yes, but you and Crowley helped protect it and retrieve it,” Greg pointed out.

“And they’ll have a whole lot longer to enjoy it,” Sherlock added, a bit resentfully.

“There’s enough to go around,” John said, still a bit schnockered, and far from unwilling to consider becoming schnockered again. He grabbed a bottle and took it out to the kitchen, where he opened it up and poured it out for all assembled.

Sherlock prepared the christening bong.

“I think I’m going to sleep well tonight,” Mycroft said, later, as he crawled into bed beside Greg, having taken a shower to clean away the salt and sand covering him from earlier.

“After that brandy and hash? I should think so,” Greg laughed, softly, imitating a serpent sneaking up on an angel. One arm slithered effectively around Mycroft’s waist.

Mycroft smiled a dreamy smile. “That too,” he said. “But I had the loveliest time before that. Greg, you’ve got to try it with me some night. Skinny dipping in the surf is good. The orgasm, though? Incredible.”

And the last bit of wakefulness was spent on descriptions—and reenactments.

And in the house next door, a demon and an angel enjoyed their buzz, and laughed their arses off.

“Haven’t had this much fun since I don’t know when,” Crowley laughed.

“I know—almost as good as the rubber ducky,” Aziraphale chortled, curled merrily beside him. And the two spent a dozy, cuddly hour going back over the millennia, sharing old pranks, until both slept in the pale dawn.


End file.
